by Jason Briggs
I decided to take my chances and play against the shooter’s apparent lack of skill and work my way back into the cover of the gardens. Slowly, I started to crawl backward while continuing to hug the ground, trying to keep the trunk of the tree between me and the person who was trying to kill me. I knew that the farther away I moved from the tree, the easier it would be to sight me; with every foot I retreated, the less cover the tree would afford. I swiveled on my stomach until my feet were facing the field and then advanced a few more feet before digging my toes into the earth, setting my palms into the grass, and shooting forward as if I was on fire. A bullet tore past less than an inch from my neck. My adrenaline was in overdrive and it took me three seconds to reach the cover of the gardens where I continued farther in until I was sure that the trees and the vines and bushes were thick enough to hide my movement from night vision.
My feet sloshed into miry grass and I finally found the boardwalk I’d met Peterson on earlier. I reached up and climbed over the railing, then quickly retraced the way I had come in. I was at the other end of the field now, where the path crossed the road, and I paused and held behind the cover of an oak. If I stepped out, I would be in range of the shooter until I crossed and made it several yards down the bricked path. But I had no idea how tenacious he—assuming it was a he—might be in his attempts to take me out, too. Or if he even knew who I was. Obviously, my complicity with Peterson was warrant enough to want me out of the picture.
Across the field, I heard the long grass whisper and then the muted sound of a twig snap. He was on the move. A few moments later a dark shadow stepped out of the brush and into the mowed grassy shoulder of the road. He wore all black clothing, and a black baseball cap was set low over his eyes. His right hand was clutching a rifle. He moved away from me at a hurried pace and followed the road toward the apartment complex.
My gun was still in my grip. Now would be the only chance I had to catch him and start getting some answers. Leaving the cover of the tree, I stepped into the road and started running after him, pumping my legs as fast as I could. Trees, grass, and the open field flew by me as I gained on him, only to watch him disappear around a bend in the road. Moments later I saw the red reflection of a car’s brake lights on the road, followed immediately by the sound of a vehicle’s engine turning on. I came around the corner just in time to see a mid-sized sedan accelerating down the street. I stopped, raised my gun, and applied pressure to the trigger, but the car swung around the next bend and out of sight before I could get a shot off. I kicked at a small rock in the road and cursed into the night sky.
He’d gotten away, and I had let him.
I turned around and ran back to where Peterson had fallen. I kneeled down beside him and set two fingers against his neck to check for a pulse. He was dead. I sighed and rubbed at my brow, wondering what in the hell was going on. Two people were dead in less than twenty-four hours, and for what?
I reached into Peterson’s pocket and found his keys. I stood up and looked down on him, wishing I’d had a sheet or a jacket to drape over him. “I’m sorry, Douglas.” I turned and ran across the field, then back down the street until I came to the apartment buildings. I dind’t know where he had parked, but I figured the most logical place would be the apartment complex. I hadn’t seen any other cars at the parked when I arrived earlier.
The entrance was gated, but a pedestrian gate was set off to the left. I tugged on it and it opened to me. I walked through and fingered Peterson’s key fob, and I heard a welcoming beep in response. I passed up a couple of stairwells and turned the corner. I pressed the key fob again. The five spaces down the parking lights of a white Jeep Cherokee flashed twice. I opened the driver’s side door and got in.
I checked the console, the glove box, above the visors, behind the seats and under the seats. I tore apart the truck, lifted the seats, and for good measure, even lifted the hood and searched the engine compartment with the flashlight on my phone.
There was no flash drive in the vehicle.
In his frenzied state, Peterson must have left it at his office.
Frustrated, I secured the Jeep and returned to my car. As I pulled away from the park, I called Kathleen.
She answered in her typical clipped manner. “Ryan.”
“Peterson’s dead.”
Silence for several seconds, and then, “How?”
I explained how I had met her former associate at the park and what information he had offered during our brief chat. I told her about the former DARPA scientist, his connection to MercoKline, and the warning note that had been left on his desk only a few nights ago. I told her how Peterson had been executed on our way back to his vehicle, and that the shooter had tried to take me out as well.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine. I’m heading to the hotel. I need some time to think about where to go from here. I don’t know what was on that data stick, and without it, I’m long on questions and short on answers.”
“Peterson was a good man,” she said quietly.
“Yeah. So was McCleary. I need you to get someone over there to deal with Peterson’s body ASAP. I really don’t want a local resident to come across him during a nightly stroll.” I gave her the rough location where the shooter had set up. “Have them check the area for casings.”
“I’m on it.”
We hung up as I navigated back to the highway and drove back over the river, all the while thinking of what to do next.
Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte McCleary inserted the key into the lock of the front door and turned it. When the deadbolt clicked back she removed the key, opened the door, and stepped inside. She flipped on the lights.
The Pursuant offices were on New Hampshire Avenue, on the slice of road that connected DuPont Circle to Washington Circle, in a street-level suite. To the right was Swaziland’s diplomatic embassy; on the left, a satellite office for a regional investment banking firm. The suite was of modest size—just under eighteen hundred square feet; they hadn’t needed more than that. The extra space was intended for the addition of personnel as the businesses expanded and took on more contracts.
Charlotte’s father had given her free rein to decorate the office to her tastes. His time in the military had truncated any sense of style he might have had to begin with, and she wanted to ensure that the space looked the part. The office didn't see much pedestrian traffic, but in their line of work, where professional connections and political savvy meant everything, it served to reinforce their image as leaders with a niche focus.
She had selected an industrial chic design with an exposed ceiling, metal and glass partitions, and furniture with sharp angles and bright colors set against muted walls. The concrete floor was stained a reddish-brown—English Red—with a clear layer of epoxy that served to give it an elegant shine.
Charlotte passed up the receptionist’s desk and proceeded to her desk at the back. She was tired, dog tired, and wished she could have returned much earlier. The detective in Miami had asked her to remain in the city for the remainder of the day, in the event that there were additional questions. Charlotte’s plane had touched down at Dulles an hour ago. After waiting for her bags, locating her car in the parking garage, and driving the thirty miles to the office, it was now an hour before midnight.
Her neck ached from the flight, and she hadn’t eaten a thing since pecking at her breakfast in the hotel restaurant this morning. She set her purse on her desk, pulled out her chair, and sat down.
Her eyes found her father’s desk across the room and she broke into tears again. She cried freely for several minutes, still feeling like she was in a nightmare that she couldn’t crawl out of. He should be at that desk Monday morning, where he would sometimes look over at her and toss her a wink.
Charlotte gathered herself and grabbed a pack of tissues from a desk drawer. She blew her nose and dried her eyes before opening her MacBook and turning it on. She typed in her password and navigated to h
er email host. She had no idea what she was looking for, but she wasn’t going to just sit around and wait for something to surface. Her father’s death had something to do with a case he was working with Pursuant. She was sure of it. Over the last ten days, he’d become narrowly focused on a case, one that he had decided to work on his own. He hadn’t shared any of the details with her. That in itself was highly unusual; he always shared information about cases with her, often asking her opinion or seeing if she could help him with a missing piece.
But lately, with each passing day, Charlotte could see the stress building in his eyes and his face and in the tense way that he carried himself. That was why she had been so glad to see him finally relax at the party last night. He had a few drinks, caught up with old friends, and, save for the two unexpected visitors who had stolen his lightheartedness for twenty minutes, seemed to forget about work for a little while.
Charlotte stood up and started walking back to the front desk to retrieve a file. She froze as her veins turned to ice.
Standing in front of her, not fifteen feet away, was a man. His right hand held a suppressed handgun. It was trained directly on her. Her entire body tensed and her pupils dilated as she stared at him. He was wearing all black; long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and a nondescript baseball cap. He was clean-shaven and had bright blue eyes and a strong jawline. He was almost handsome. She surprised herself when she spoke. Her voice wasn’t shaky or wavering, her words coming out cool and collected. “What do you want?”
His expression didn’t change. There was no smile, and he didn’t smirk. “Your father’s laptop. Where is it?”
It took a few moments for his words to register. Her eyes remained fixated on the gun, and she swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
“I need it.”
“It must have been in his hotel room. The Miami police probably have it.”
“It wasn’t. And they don’t.”
Her eyes flared with anger and moved from the gun to his face. “You killed my father?”
“Where do you think the laptop is?”
“I asked you a question,” she said icily.
“And I asked you a question. Since I’m the one with the gun, you might want to answer it.”
“Why?” she asked. “What did my father do that deserved him being killed?”
He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. The answer to that is outside the scope of my interests.”
“I don’t know where it is.” Her voice was trembling now. “Please. I don’t know anything.”
He looked around the room with a casual disinterest that made Charlotte understand that she was going to die here, in this office, and on the same day as her father. Her concealed carry, a Ruger SP101, was behind her, completely useless as it sat in her purse on the desk. The dozens, if not hundreds, of hours spent at shooting ranges with her father were all for naught. When the moment finally came, she was without any means of defending herself.
The man’s cold and calculating eyes came to rest on her once again. A smile finally came. It was just as she thought it would be: indifferent with a hint of play. “I’ll give you one more chance. I need your father’s laptop. If you don’t know where it is then perhaps you can give me a possible location.”
Her bottom lip started trembling. “He was a good man.”
“That’s not the answer I was hoping for. I’m sorry to have to do this. You really are very beautiful.”
He took a step forward, raised the weapon, and fired twice.
Chapter Fourteen
My gun bucked in my hand and I watched as the man who had murdered Douglas Peterson collapsed onto the stained concrete floor. I locked eyes with Charlotte McCleary. Her arms and hands were shaking. She was holding her breath and looked as if she were about to scream. Her eyes roved over me, but she failed at recognition.
“Please,” she choked out. “Please, I—”
“Charlotte. It’s me, Ryan Savage. We had breakfast together this morning.”
Her eyes finally made the connection. “Ryan? God, what—who—”
I held my hands up. “You’re safe now. You’re safe, okay? He’s not going to hurt you.”
“Oh, God. He was going to kill me. What is happening?”
“I don’t know.” The man’s gun had clattered away near a baseboard when he fell. Still, I used caution when pulling back on his shoulder and rolling him onto his back. His lips were covered in fresh blood. His eyes looked distant, but he was still breathing. Keeping my gun trained on him, I squatted down. “Why were you going to kill her?”
“He kept asking me where my father’s laptop was,” Charlotte said from behind me. “That’s the only thing he seemed to want. And I think he’s the one who killed Dad.”
“Is that right?” I growled. “Did you kill my friend? Did you kill her father?”
He tried to speak. As his lips trembled, a thin rivulet of blood ran out of his mouth and down the side of his face. His chest shook, and he gave a stunted cough. He was choking on his own blood. I moved behind him and lifted him up. When he coughed again, I knew my efforts at getting him to speak were fruitless. Blood sprayed from his mouth and painted the floor. His breathing slowed and he tried to suck in another breath, gagged, and then finally went limp. He was dead.
I retrieved his gun. It was a Sig Saur P226 with custom chrome plating and a textured blue polymer grip. I stuck it in the back waistband of my jeans and searched his pockets. All I came up with was a large key ring with an attached Acura key fob, a couple of pink keys, and a purple leather strap with the phrase “I
